Useless Emotions
by RavenWingDark
Summary: SEASON 3 SPOILERS John is horrified to learn what Sherlock has been doing the last two years. One-shot bromance. h/c


**A short, angsty one-shot bromance between John and Sherlock set after Sherlock returns.**

WARNINGS:

I do not own Sherlock Holmes, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle created him and Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat own rights to Sherlock BBC. I'm sure being the Fandom that we are, you all have deduced as much.

Season 3 SPOILERS.

Un-betaed and has not been britpicked.

Since three theories have been shown in The Empty Hearse, I'm unsure which to believe (1 or 3) as both seem strange. I settled for a mixture of the two.

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John set the kettle on the stove to boil, leaning back on his heels to look at his undead best friend. Sherlock was sitting in his favorite chair, clad in a gray t-shirt, blue striped pajama pants and his bathrobe. It was almost surreal seeing him there, violin against his chin. Sherlock seemed to be able to dive back into their normal life at Baker Street. Life for them was different now though. He had a gorgeous fiancé. A wonderful, kind woman who had insisted that John live at 221 B Baker Street until their their marriage two months from now. She had always known exactly what he needed, and now, only four days after Sherlock's return, John needed to know that it wasn't all a dream.

And in less than a hour, she was due over for tea. And Sherlock hadn't put up a fuss about joining them. He had woken up, made conversation with John briefly while nibbling on a piece of toast, whined over his books and lab equipment being picked over without any real malice and muttered to himself as he located and destroyed seven hidden cameras smaller than a cube of sugar.

But for the last hour, Sherlock had been doting on his violin. First, he held it staring unhappily, then he set it down, left the room for a minute and returned with a handkerchief and a small bottle. He lowered himself into his favorite chair, crossing his legs atop the coffee table. He had dragged the handkerchief slowly across its dulled surface, cleaning every grove of maple wood with the precision of a surgeon. Years ago, Sherlock had explained in great detail the history of his instrument to John. The only things he remembered were that it was of German make and dated back to the late 19th century.

After the violin had been dusted to the consulting detective's contentment, Sherlock opened the bottle of varnish and began oiling the aged wooden surface.

Finally, he brought the violin to his chin and plucked the strings, tuning it even when John, who at this point had been sitting in the opposite chair reading an article about Sherlock in the newspaper, couldn't hear a difference.

Then he began to play, at first it sounded strange. The complicated was punctuated with breaks so brief John didn't know if they were hesitation or quarter-rests. Occasionally, he would play and replay a note until it sounded perfect to him.

John had brought it up.

"A little rusty, mate?"

"Would you like to try, John?"

Then again:

"Didn't you play the last two years, Sherlock?"

"I learned how to play the violin in a week, John, two years' absence changes nothing." Despite this, Sherlock looked discontent.

John was left to wonder why Sherlock hadn't played in the two years he was gone. But within ten minutes, his bow was whipping across the strings with all of its old fervor, playing the same song on an infinite loop with slight variations. And that's what Sherlock had been doing for the past fifteen minutes.

Sherlock's head raised expectantly from his violin and his pace slowed. John furrowed his eyebrows, noting the change in disposition.

"Mycroft," Sherlock deadpanned as Mycroft entered the flat.

"Hello, brother. It's been a while, John, I'm ever so glad to see that things have worked out." Mycroft said pleasantly. John gave him a tight-lipped smile and a polite nod.

"Enough small talk, Mycroft. Why are you here?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"I thought I would bring a file over. A new case that has stumped all of the Yard's detectives." Mycroft set the file down on the table, looked at Sherlock for a moment before turning to leave.

"Don't insult my intelligence. You grew concerned when you learned that I had destroyed your cameras. You came to check in on me. I'm not a child, Mycroft, and you shouldn't submit to a useless emotion."

Mycroft turned around slowly. "I came to warn you not to go defusing anymore bombs until you've healed completely. Judging by John's sudden step forward you've not said a word about your injuries. How utterly irresponsible."

Sherlock stiffened but then returned to playing, quieter this time. "Thank you for stopping by, _brother dear, _but we're quite busy. Leave the flat door open as you leave, John's expecting a guest." His tone was nothing but dismissive.

Mycroft nodded, and walked to the door, a small, purposeful _tap _of his umbrella against the floor and Mycroft continued. "If you don't seek medical treatment, I intend to send someone to forcibly take you to the hospital. Why must I continue to supervise you even as an adult?" As Mycroft spoke his voice was as calm and indifferent as ever and he turned went down the stairs as if nothing had happened.

There were a few moments of silence before John turned stiffly to Sherlock. Finally, Sherlock set down his violin and gave John a smile. "Ah, we should probably get prepared for Mary," Sherlock started, pushing himself out of his seat.

"You're hurt." John said, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Now, John, you can't expect me to tell you every uneventful thing that has occurred in the past 732 days, can you?" Sherlock told him, straightening his robe and trying to control the damaged situation.

"No. Yes. Dammit, Sherlock, don't do this to me." John knew he was over-reacting, Sherlock had always been like this, but five days ago, he had thought his best friend was dead. Thinking about having to experience that again was terrifying.

"I do have a private life, John." Sherlock told him.

Immediately, John blushed. "You mean a woman did was the one who did it?"

"No, it was a man." Sherlock, asked, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

"Oh, oh." John said, very embarrassed now. "Cheers. When can I meet him then?"

Sherlock's puzzlement grew even more. "You can't. He's dead."

"What? I'm so sorry!" John exclaimed, horrified.

"Don't be, I killed him."

"What?" John gaped. "Alright, I'm sorry, I'm really not following, Sherlock. Please explain all this."

Sherlock hesitated as if he wasn't sure if he should tell him but relented. "Last week I had nearly killed everyone under Moriarty's influence. Only one left so I…"

"Moriarty? He disappeared after you…after you…fell." John choked out thickly.

Sherlock was pacing now. "No, no. I faked the call about Mrs. Hudson being shot. Sorry." Sherlock told him, sounding anything but repentant, "So you wouldn't be there and I met Moriarty on the roof. He was the final problem. He said if he were to die… you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would die. And the only way to stop them would be _my death_. Do sit down, John, you've gone white." Sherlock helped John into his chair before moving away to continue his pacing.

"He said that if I didn't kill myself, further proving his fiction of me being a fraud, you would all die. I realized that I didn't have to jump if he was still alive. The only other way out vanished when he shot himself in the head. There was only one thing I could do and that was to fake my own death.

"Mycroft had assisted me in planning thirteen exit strategies so I texted him the code name-Lazarus. And you showed up. I kept telling you to stay were you were so you wouldn't see me land. My homeless network inflated a landing pad so the hardest thing I had to do was control my fall. Once I was there, I had a few people pour what you assumed was blood onto my face. Then I lay down and put a squash ball under my arm. No pulse, fell off a building, blood everywhere, unmoving." Sherlock looked at John, who was visibly shaking and continued with a softer voice. "Might've even convinced me for a moment. You didn't stand a chance."

"In order for me to have enough time, I had someone hypnotize you into thinking you were knocked out momentarily. I'm sorry. The assassins believed what they saw-or didn't see-and backed down."

"Why did you never tell me you were alive?" John's voice broke.

Sherlock was nonplussed. "The past two years I've been traveling around Europe killing off Moriarty's web. Everyone under his influence who would come after you once I revealed that I was alive. I couldn't return until you were safe." Sherlock stopped suddenly, wincing and touching his back.

John stood up again, having gotten himself more or less under control. "I'm going to get the first-aid kit, Sherlock. I know its your back that's bothering you. And I'm perfectly willing to call your brother if you don't cooperate with me."

Sherlock was still scowling when John re-entered the room but he shrugged off his bathrobe and slowly worked up his t-shirt. John cleared the coffee table, pulled up a chair and gestured for Sherlock to sit down. They stared at each other for seconds before Sherlock decided to let him treat his wounds. He sat down and John saw what had happened to his best friend.

Scars that had faded, probably about 12-18 months old, remnants of cuts and burns. But the majority were fresher than three months. And a lot were less than three weeks. They were wounds that had recently been stitched but had been open for days prior to that. A few stitches had ripped and looked angry and ready to bleed. Most likely from Sherlock's rush to save him before, John realized. Patches of days old burns that had cracked skin deep into the flesh. They were too extreme to be from pulling John out of the fire.

He had treated his in the army several times, people who had been prisoners of war and had been chained and beaten and tortured. He tried, and failed, to keep his voice calm and even.

"Can I see your wrists?" Sherlock obliged. Under close inspection, yellowed bruises and broken skin caused by struggling in handcuffs.

"Sherlock, how could…what happened?" He wanted to yell and he wanted to kill whoever had done it, but he was able to put on a facade of neutrality even if he couldn't control his vocal cords.

Sherlock smiled. "I've had to kill twelve people, John, and some of them were almost challenging. Not to worry though, I was caught on purpose more times than not. Most recently in fact, in Serbia, I let myself get caught so I could be brought to his boss."

John glared.

"Things did go a little out of hand though. I couldn't get out of the particular situation and the man I needed to get rid of kept me chained so I couldn't very well kill him. Mycroft had to infiltrate the gang to pull me out, but I did it and here I am." Sherlock spread his arms out to the side in a grandiose gesture before running a hand over a bandaged wrist in inspection. "It all turned out alright though."

John, who was now cleaning the wounds on his back huffed humorlessly.

"No, I'm serious, John. It was all worth it. I was…concerned that I wouldn't be able to get back to my blogger. Concern. What a useless human emotion."

John smiled. Everything that Sherlock had sacrificed and risked for him. He really was the most human human. Even if Sherlock would never think so himself.

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**Thank you for reading! In order for me to further improve my writing, please rate how in character Sherlock, John and Mycroft were (if you could picture them says their lines). Thanks again! (And tell me if you are interested in me making another one)**


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